Christopher Bursk

Icarus

Veer. Swoop. Dive. Plummet.Plunge. The limited vocabularyof longing.When does knowingthat what he wantsis impossibleever keep a boyfrom wanting it? WingsFeathersLight. It’s not the sunthat sends Icarus crashing,but the weightof all the ordinaryair on his shoulders, millionsof moleculesthe vulgarfacts of chemistry, jealousiesof physics.It’s not flighthe years for, as much asthe solicitude beforeand after,his father’s hopes for his soaring,his father’s pityfor his fall, Daedalusbending over Icarusas if a boy’s bodywas meant for morethan just taking out the trashor kicking a soccer ball,the man’s handson the boy’s shoulder blades,just underthe boy’s armsstitching wingsto the wingson the boy’s back.